


Faith

by Pholo



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 11:52:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11736489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pholo/pseuds/Pholo
Summary: Whilst held captive on a Galra ship, Keith is confronted by…Shiro?





	Faith

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for [Sheithfromvoltron's!](http://www.sheithfromvoltron.tumblr.com) birthday! Weeee!

_Focus_ , Keith thinks.

His limbs are like lead. The cuts on his arms and torso sting; he’s dizzy for lack of water. Keith wants to struggle—to lash against the table until his spine cracks—but he can’t. The restraints on Keith wrists and ankles are too thick to snap without a knife. Keith needs to save his strength for the real fight ahead: When Voltron comes to rescue him, this Galra ship will erupt like a gas fire.

If Keith were a selfless man, he might feel anger towards his teammates. They shouldn’t put the Lions at risk for his sake—not when they have the whole universe to defend. But right now Keith’s tired and fever-addled and _hurt_. He lets his faith envelop him, cool like a balm on his wounds, and closes his eyes.

 _They’ll be here soon_. Keith’s spine strains against the metal table. The blood cools on his arms. _Just wait a little longer…_

 

 

The door to Keith’s cell opens.

Keith writhes against his restraints, shaken out of a dark dream. The movement scrunches up his clothes, and there’s a sickly noise as the dried blood peels from Keith’s back and shirt.

“Whoa, whoa, Keith—easy there, buddy. It’s just me.”

Keith’s body processes the voice before his mind can. He drops back against the table. 

“Shiro?” Keith rasps. 

“Hey,” Shiro says, and walks forward. There’s a metal cup in his hand. Keith’s vision spins as Shiro levers the table up to a more angled position. He doesn’t undo Keith’s restraints, but presses the cup to his lips. Keith must look as confused as he feels, because Shiro sighs. He shakes his head, and tilts the cup by the barest degrees.

Keith accepts the drink. He wants to cry at the sensation of cold water on his tongue. His hands trembled a little at the relief of it.

“I’m sorry about all this,” Shiro says as Keith drinks. “I told the guards to be careful with you.”

“You told—?” Keith manages, around his last gulp of water.

Shiro pulls the empty cup away. “Come on, Keith,” he says. There’s a clink where he sets the cup on the floor. “You’re a smart kid. Put the pieces together.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Keith grumbles. It occurs to him that this is probably a hallucination, and his shoulders drop slightly as he relaxes.

Shiro picks up on the movement. His lips quirk up in a way that Keith doesn’t recognize.

“I’m a double agent, Keith,” Shiro says. “I’ve been feeding information to the Galra for the past five months.”

There’s a pause. Then—

Keith laughs. His body aches as his cuts catch on his shirt.

“You?” he says. “A double agent? Shiro, you tried to lie to Ms. Henderson about your late assignment and your face turned so red I thought you were gonna’ pass out.”

Shiro frowns. “I’ve been through a lot since _college_ , Keith.”

“Yeah, I know,” Keith says, kindly. “But you’re still a terrible actor.”

Shiro takes a moment to stare at Keith, his eyebrow raised. He leans forward, slowly—like he wants to savor the moment. Keith almost shies away from Shiro’s touch, but he forces his muscles to relax when Shiro’s prosthetic fingers clench around Keith’s shoulder. The digits flex against the material of Keith’s shirt—and then there’s a second hand over Keith’s eyes.

Keith bites back a surprised noise. The metal hand on Keith’s shoulder starts to move. Shiro hums, and his fingers knead circles into Keith’s chest. The gesture is weirdly sexual; Keith strains to see past Shiro’s flesh hand.

Shiro chuckles. His motions are sluggish as he paws across Keith’s shirt. Bit by bit his hand drifts towards Keith’s collarbone.

“'Hey, Keith?‘” Shiro asks—no, Keith thinks, _parrots_. In a second, Shiro’s flat, cynical tone has become one of genuine concern. “'I noticed you’ve been pretty stressed lately. I was thinking we could take a break?” The hand on Keith’s shoulder curls suddenly, and Keith hisses. “There’s a meteor shower tomorrow at around eleven. I know an RA who’d turn a blind eye to a couple of punks on the roof.'”

It’s an act. It’s _obviously_ an act. But the tenderness in Shiro’s voice shakes something loose in Keith’s memory. He’s thrown back to his freshman year at the Garrison, back to the night when he and Shiro had snuck out on the roof to stargaze. Keith remembers Shiro’s warm weight against his side; his head pillowed on Keith’s shoulder as he peered up at the sky. The way his eyes had shone under the starlight.

Keith pushes the memory of Shiro’s smile out of his head.

“You’re a hologram,” he says.

Shiro’s fingers graze his pulse-point; Keith refuses to flinch. “Like at the Blade’s headquarters?” Shiro muses. His prosthetic hand flits down over Keith’s chest. “All right. Tell me, Keith: would you say this is your greatest hope, or your greatest fear?”

There’s a sharp click as Shiro’s prosthetic hums to life—and then heat explodes across Keith’s chest. A scream rips up through Keith’s ribcage. Purple lights bloom behind the drape of Shiro’s fingers. Shiro drags his prosthetic down across Keith’s torso; cards his metal fingers through the burned fabric of Keith’s shirt.

“Shh,” Shiro murmurs. He allows Keith to gasp and splutter; he watches the Paladin’s chest heave once, twice, then pushes his palm to the reddened skin over Keith’s heart.

There’s a gross hiss of flesh. Keith’s screams are primordial; alien to his own ears. They are muffled suddenly as Shiro crushes his lips over Keith’s mouth. Shiro kisses Keith deeply, almost casually, as Keith squirms along the table. His metal hand cools, and the fingers wander lower, lower…

_No no no no no no no please no_

Some urgent bravery surpasses Keith’s pain and panic. He regains his wits long enough to bite down on Shiro’s tongue. Shiro breaks the kiss, and Keith rams their foreheads together; there’s a sharp crack, and Shiro stumbles back from the table. Keith bucks against his restraints.

“You’re not him!” Keith shrieks. The pain turns his heartbeat to firecrackers. “You’re not Shiro!”

There’s blood on Shiro’s lips. He braces himself against the edge of the table.

“Oh, Keith,” he says. “What did I do to deserve your trust?”

He allows Keith a slice of reprieve—long enough for Keith to waste his newfound strength on the restraints. Then Shiro steps forward, his right hand extended to cup Keith’s cheek. 

An explosion splits the air down the hallway. Shiro’s hand lazes to a halt, a whisper from Keith’s face. He stops and turns to look at the door; a rumble shakes the cell, long and guttural as though wrenched from the very bowels of the ship.

Shiro’s hands clench around the ledge of the table.

Keith sags against his restraints.

 _Thank god_.

“This will only take a minute,” Shiro promises. He stalks out of the cell.

Keith’s eyes are shut before the door closes.

 

 

“Keith…”

Keith stirs against the table. A cut rips open on his back, and he hisses.

“Keith? Keith, are you with me?”

Keith doesn’t want to wake up. He’s far away on a Wednesday afternoon, stretched out with Shiro on a dorm bed, his nose buried between the pages of a wilted textbook. A sunbeam catches on the planes of Shiro’s face, his gaze soft as he studies Keith from across the bed. Keith pretends he doesn’t feel Shiro’s eyes on him. He hides his blush behind his textbook and rereads the same line five times.

“Keith, please…”

Keith flinches, and the dream slips away. It’s useless. Keith can never say no to Shiro.

Keith opens his eyes. Pain swallows up his chest—duller than before, almost dangerously distant—and his fingers clench around someone’s offered hand. A voice catches above his head.

“Keith,” Shiro chokes out. There’s a bob of shapes as Shiro dips his head. “Keith, Keith, Keith…”

A forehead finds Keith’s. There are tears on his cheeks; not his own. Shiro cradles Keith’s head like he’s afraid he’ll crumple to sand under his fingers. His breath ghosts against Keith’s skin, his cries sharp like he means to stifle them. His whole body curls forward over the table to shield Keith’s torso.

Keith’s fingers twitch at his sides. His arms and legs are free. He blinks up at Shiro’s scrunched face; Shiro presses a kiss to Keith’s nose, quick and messy—and suddenly Keith _knows_. He smells sweat and blood and the desert and he _knows_  like he knows his own heart.

Keith smiles. His hands tremble up to brush Shiro’s cheeks.

“Knew you’d come,” he coughs.   

**Author's Note:**

> The real Shiro came to the rescue…Hooray! I couldn’t resist a happy ending. 
> 
> I mean…I _say_ happy. These two’ll have some shit to sort through. Maybe I’ll write an epilogue someday. Who knows.


End file.
